Poems And Songs Of Robert Burns Part 11

Then Shaw's an' D'rymple's eloquence, M'Gill's close nervous excellence

[Footnote 6: Rev. Dr. Dalrymple of Ayr.]

[Footnote 7: Rev. Wm. M'Gill, colleague of Dr. Dalrymple.]

[Footnote 8: Minister of St. Quivox.]

[Footnote 9: Dr. Andrew Shaw of Craigie, and Dr. David Shaw of Coylton.]

[Footnote 10: Dr. Peter Wodrow of Tarbolton.]

[Footnote 11: Rev. John M'Math, a young a.s.sistant and successor to Wodrow.]

[Footnote 12: Rev. George Smith of Galston.]

M'Quhae's pathetic manly sense, An' guid M'Math, Wi' Smith, wha thro' the heart can glance, May a' pack aff.

1785

Epistle To Davie, A Brother Poet

January

While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, An' bar the doors wi' driving snaw, An' hing us owre the ingle, I set me down to pa.s.s the time, An' spin a verse or twa o' rhyme, In hamely, westlin jingle.

While frosty winds blaw in the drift, Ben to the chimla lug, I grudge a wee the great-folk's gift, That live sae bien an' snug: I tent less, and want less Their roomy fire-side; But hanker, and canker, To see their cursed pride.

It's hardly in a body's pow'r To keep, at times, frae being sour, To see how things are shar'd; How best o' chiels are whiles in want, While coofs on countless thousands rant, And ken na how to wair't; But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, Tho' we hae little gear; We're fit to win our daily bread, As lang's we're hale and fier: "Mair spier na, nor fear na,"^1 Auld age ne'er mind a feg; The last o't, the warst o't Is only but to beg.

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en, When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin, Is doubtless, great distress!

[Footnote 1: Ramsay.--R. B.]

Yet then content could make us blest; Ev'n then, sometimes, we'd s.n.a.t.c.h a taste Of truest happiness.

The honest heart that's free frae a'

Intended fraud or guile, However Fortune kick the ba', Has aye some cause to smile; An' mind still, you'll find still, A comfort this nae sma'; Nae mair then we'll care then, Nae farther can we fa'.

What tho', like commoners of air, We wander out, we know not where, But either house or hal', Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, Are free alike to all.

In days when daisies deck the ground, And blackbirds whistle clear, With honest joy our hearts will bound, To see the coming year: On braes when we please, then, We'll sit an' sowth a tune; Syne rhyme till't we'll time till't, An' sing't when we hae done.

It's no in t.i.tles nor in rank; It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, To purchase peace and rest: It's no in makin' muckle, mair; It's no in books, it's no in lear, To make us truly blest: If happiness hae not her seat An' centre in the breast, We may be wise, or rich, or great, But never can be blest; Nae treasures, nor pleasures Could make us happy lang; The heart aye's the part aye That makes us right or wrang.

Think ye, that sic as you and I, Wha drudge an' drive thro' wet and dry, Wi' never-ceasing toil; Think ye, are we less blest than they, Wha scarcely tent us in their way, As hardly worth their while?

Alas! how aft in haughty mood, G.o.d's creatures they oppress!

Or else, neglecting a' that's guid, They riot in excess!

Baith careless and fearless Of either heaven or h.e.l.l; Esteeming and deeming It's a' an idle tale!

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce, Nor make our scanty pleasures less, By pining at our state: And, even should misfortunes come, I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some-- An's thankfu' for them yet.

They gie the wit of age to youth; They let us ken oursel'; They make us see the naked truth, The real guid and ill: Tho' losses an' crosses Be lessons right severe, There's wit there, ye'll get there, Ye'll find nae other where.

But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts!

(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, And flatt'ry I detest) This life has joys for you and I; An' joys that riches ne'er could buy, An' joys the very best.

There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, The lover an' the frien'; Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part, And I my darling Jean!

It warms me, it charms me, To mention but her name: It heats me, it beets me, An' sets me a' on flame!

O all ye Pow'rs who rule above!

O Thou whose very self art love!

Thou know'st my words sincere!

The life-blood streaming thro' my heart, Or my more dear immortal part, Is not more fondly dear!

When heart-corroding care and grief Deprive my soul of rest, Her dear idea brings relief, And solace to my breast.

Thou Being, All-seeing, O hear my fervent pray'r; Still take her, and make her Thy most peculiar care!

All hail! ye tender feelings dear!

The smile of love, the friendly tear, The sympathetic glow!

Long since, this world's th.o.r.n.y ways Had number'd out my weary days, Had it not been for you!

Fate still has blest me with a friend, In ev'ry care and ill; And oft a more endearing band-- A tie more tender still.

It lightens, it brightens The tenebrific scene, To meet with, and greet with My Davie, or my Jean!

O, how that name inspires my style!

The words come skelpin, rank an' file, Amaist before I ken!

The ready measure rins as fine, As Phoebus an' the famous Nine Were glowrin owre my pen.

My spaviet Pegasus will limp, Till ance he's fairly het; And then he'll hilch, and stilt, an' jimp, And rin an unco fit: But least then the beast then Should rue this hasty ride, I'll light now, and dight now His sweaty, wizen'd hide.

Holy Willie's Prayer

"And send the G.o.dly in a pet to pray."--Pope.

Argument.

Holy Willie was a rather oldish bachelor elder, in the parish of Mauchline, and much and justly famed for that polemical chattering, which ends in tippling orthodoxy, and for that spiritualized bawdry which refines to liquorish devotion. In a sessional process with a gentleman in Mauchline--a Mr. Gavin Hamilton--Holy Willie and his priest, Father Auld, after full hearing in the presbytery of Ayr, came off but second best; owing partly to the oratorical powers of Mr. Robert Aiken, Mr. Hamilton's counsel; but chiefly to Mr. Hamilton's being one of the most irreproachable and truly respectable characters in the county. On losing the process, the muse overheard him [Holy Willie]

at his devotions, as follows:--

O Thou, who in the heavens does dwell, Who, as it pleases best Thysel', Sends ane to heaven an' ten to h.e.l.l, A' for Thy glory, And no for ony gude or ill They've done afore Thee!

I bless and praise Thy matchless might, When thousands Thou hast left in night, That I am here afore Thy sight, For gifts an' grace A burning and a s.h.i.+ning light To a' this place.

What was I, or my generation, That I should get sic exaltation, I wha deserve most just d.a.m.nation For broken laws, Five thousand years ere my creation, Thro' Adam's cause?